


Dear Daniel

by incorrectbatfam



Category: Original Work, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Gen, Letters, POV First Person, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: All the things I wish I could’ve said at the meet-and-greet.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Dear Daniel

Dear Daniel,

You are not my hero.

You are not my inspiration.

Batman makes that list before you do.

You are a random guy on the internet

branded by a Winnie the Pooh accent and existentialism

who I saw twice, met once

when you flew across the ocean.

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2014.

I’m the same age as the last two digits.

Already a veteran of the internet,

you were not my first YouTuber,

yet you quickly rose to be my favorite.

I can’t pinpoint why.

You joke about the nothingness of our presence and non-presence,

I write sagas of superheroes and spell books.

We’re nothing alike.

Other than being funny and conventionally attractive, there should’ve been no reason for me to secretly watch your videos on my school iPad in the back of the classroom.

Perhaps it’s ‘cause you’re my only friend.

At least that’s what the self-doubt told me.

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2015.

It seems like the drama is coming to a close.

Clouds parting,

blindfold lifting as if wondering:

_ “Is it over? Can I look now?” _

Except there’s no wool over my eyes.

I see it all.

The insanity.

The invasiveness.

The utter lack of respect,

the damage it inflicts.

And I do the worst thing anyone can do:

nothing.

(Sorry won’t turn back time but it’s all I have to offer.)

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2016.

I turn sixteen. 

You’re on the TATINOF tour and I have far-out balcony seats.

I’m screaming my lungs out

at the best sweet sixteen you unknowingly gave me.

Dear Daniel,

The year is still 2016.

Summer rains gone,

fall passes by in a blur,

and the wintry frigidness barely sets in.

I tried to kill myself.

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2017.

I leave the hospital.

The first thing I do when I get home:

I open my laptop

and I see your upload

and I’m so glad I failed.

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2018.

I didn’t think I’d see the day

when I became an adult.

Independent,

free.

I meet you on your second tour,

splurging on the VIP perks.

I’m not normally a hugger

but I wish ours lasted

just a second-and-a-half longer.

I have so much to say,

but there’s a line behind me.

Dear Daniel,

The year is 2019.

I’ve been going about a life where

I can’t live my truth.

Where I was conditioned to think

certain people were wrong.

Where  _ I’m _ wrong.

Dirty.

Abnormal.

You make a forty-five minute video.

I have the attention span of a goldfish

but I click anyway.

Dear Daniel, 

The year is 2020.

I write this ten days after my birthday, on the eve of yours. 

Where once was a child who believed they wouldn’t see senior prom

now stands a strong young lady,

halfway through her bachelor of science,

feeling for the first time

that she got this.

A young lady

who wears what her sixth grade self called “the L-word” proudly,

unashamed of who she loves, 

because all that matters is she loves.

A young lady

unafraid of the uncertain

even with an Earth in flames around her.

And self-doubt asks me:

_ “Hon, what are you doing? _

_ You know he’s busy. _

_ He’ll be buried in tweets, _

_ or out enjoying his special day. _

_ The chances of him seeing this are the same as the chances of being struck by lightning. _

_ Hell, maybe even less. At least you’ve seen lightning more than twice. _

_ And he’s heard so many stories like this. _

_ You’re part of the ninety-nine percent _

_ that will be forgotten.” _

To which I reply:

_ “I’ve had worse odds.” _

Dear Daniel,

You are not my hero.

You are not my inspiration.

Spider-Man makes that list before you do.

You are a random guy on the internet

turned beacon of hope.

You’re the hand I held like a child at a crosswalk.

You were the North Star in a black sky.

Yet, to say you are my hero would be misleading,

for you haved saved many lives,

but I saved my own.

You just happened to be there as I did it.

You were there when I pulled myself from the Lazarus pits

and you cheered me on as I slayed the monsters Phobos and Deimos.

You encouraged me,

watched me grow into the shieldmaiden I am today.

And to claim you inspire me would be equally false,

for my world does not revolve around you.

You’re not the muse of my creations.

You are the starfish in my oceans.

Tiny at a glance.

One of the keystones,

without whom

there would be just a little less harmony on this rock.

Dear Daniel,

A few hundred words

in a four-in-the-morning crafted letter,

repetitive as sub-par poetry,

could not nearly express my gratitude to you for showing me

to hold faith in myself,

to keep trust in my choices,

and  **have the courage to exist.**


End file.
